


Low Visibility

by jat_sapphire



Category: The Professionals
Genre: Episode: s03e11 Involvement, F/M, M/M, Pre-Slash, Weekly Obbo Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-22
Packaged: 2019-06-30 21:11:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15759762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jat_sapphire/pseuds/jat_sapphire
Summary: After the end of Involvement, Bodie blushes (almost) and Ray walks in the fog.





	Low Visibility

The day Ann left seemed to last forever. After Ray ran down the stairs behind her, after her car circled around him and sped away, after he couldn’t even look at Bodie, knowing his own mortifying need for comfort had to be written all over him, he walked out of his partner’s half embrace, felt cold again, and turned to find no pity. In fact, Bodie looked broken open, as if he were the one whose love had just left him. Ray waited for him and put his arm across those broad shoulders that could carry anything.

At the pub, while Bodie’s attempts at small talk weren’t what anyone could call successful, Ray really was distracted from his flashbacks (of Ann’s face, her tears, the buildings and sky over her shoulder when he had to look away) by rueful amusement and affection. Bodie was trying so hard.

But even he couldn’t keep going for long—in the end, he shepherded Ray home as if he were dead drunk, practically tucking him up on the sofa with a cuppa and so many anxious looks that Ray finally stood up, reached for the nape of Bodie’s neck, and pulled their foreheads together. After a moment, Bodie pulled back, but Ray wouldn’t let him go far. “I won’t die of this, you know.”

“Just want to, for a while,” and Bodie’s voice was rough.

“You big softie,” Ray said, let go of the solid, corded neck, and patted his cheek instead. Surprisingly, it felt warmer than usual, though Ray couldn’t see a blush. That fair skin always showed less than Ray expected.

He looked harder, and Bodie held his gaze. Ray grasped both muscled shoulders but couldn’t make himself name what he was seeing. So he let go, feeling Bodie’s fingertips catch, barely brush the cotton sleeve at his elbow, as his arms fell to his sides.

“Pick you up tomorrow?” Bodie asked.

“Yeah, mate. Ta.” Ray bent his lips to show the intent of a smile. “For all of it, today.”

Bodie made one of his pursed-lip expressions that could mean anything. Then he ruffled Ray’s hair and was gone.

Sitting back on the sofa, Ray covered his face with his hands. The dark solitude burned behind his eyelids, and he stared it down. Not thinking of Bodie. Not at all.

Then he drank the cold tea. Washed the cup. Stepped down from the raised kitchen floor toward the table, but turned back. He took the cup out of the drying rack and wiped it dry, put it away, looked the length of the flat, where everything was in place—nothing needed doing.

He couldn’t bear to just _sit_ there, so he grabbed his jacket and went for a walk.

Fog had settled into the streets as if into cracks in the afternoon. He thought of himself as knowing the city well; he’d explored this neighbourhood when he first moved in; but this grey cotton-wool air seemed to have seeped inside him as well as wrapping round him, and he was lost in minutes. The strike of his boots on the pavement was his only connection to the world.

Being lost wasn’t so bad, though: it was a useful distraction, wasn’t it? He turned a corner, stopped to listen hard for traffic and crossed a street, almost tripped on another kerb, turned again. After a winding while, he found himself with wet paving stones under his feet, a tall iron fence on his left with posh fronts beyond and a short one on his right with indistinct masses—bushes?—down the slope. He walked faster, took longer strides, tapped the iron knobs on top of the shorter rail as he passed them.

But for all the effort he put into not thinking of Bodie, feeling like he was holding up walls with his hands, pushing them with all his strength, the man might as well have been right beside him, matching step for step, breathing in his ears. He couldn’t pretend forever.

“All _right_ , then,” he said aloud, and stopped. Turning to the fence, he grasped the bars. What he saw was shiny with paint and the mist. What his hands felt was cold, crinkled, cutting. What he almost saw between the bars was Bodie’s face, and when he allowed it, the memory made a rush of something like static, like heat, run from chest to groin.

 _Be honest_ : it wasn’t new. Ray lifted his chin. It was desire he was feeling, had felt before. The real question had never been what it was, but what he was going to do about it.

That wasn’t a decision he could make now, at all today, with Ann hardly gone. He _had_ loved her. He had.

Anyway he needed to stop mooning about here—so he turned left, put his hands in his pockets as far as they would go (not far), and started tracing his way back to his flat. He’d warm up, maybe have a drink, maybe a meal. Get himself together for tomorrow.  Find a normal day’s face and greeting to have ready for when Bodie picked him up.

Worry about a longer future when the sun was up and the fog gone.


End file.
